"When?"
"At the vespers service next Sunday afternoon."
"But I can't do that. It's too soon. It wouldn't be fair to them, even if I should sing well at the trial. I—I'm afraid I've been letting you expect too much—" Her face had grown whiter than usual.
"But you can." Jonathan was very earnest. "You must believe—you must believe you can. You must make up your mind to sing your very best next Sunday. If they hear you at your best, they'll be glad to have you, even if your voice is a little uncertain at first. And you must get away from this office."
"You mean my work here isn't good enough—that you want to get rid of me?"
"Not that!" Jonathan almost gasped. He looked down at his desk and nervously ruffled his whiskers. "Oh, not that! I shall—miss you very much. And if you ever want to come back, there's a place waiting for you. But I want you to have your career—everything that is best for you. And"—he raised his eyes to her again and they joined his tongue in the plea—"won't you try it for—for my sake?"
She looked away quickly, a sudden catch in her throat. And though her heart was filled with dread for herself, it was aching, too, for the little man—not so absurd to her just then—part of whose secret she had seen.
"I will try it," she said. . . .
Of course she told David that evening. (How easily and naturally, now that his work on the plans was done, they had drifted into those little evening chats!) He had a moment of grave doubt. His face showed it.
"Do you think I can't make it?"